Lips and Ships

LIBBY

On Monday at 10:00, I slapped my long overdue resignation letter onto my supervisor’s desk at the Daily Horn. By 11:30, Billy Brenden’s decaying corpse had been unearthed on the Tuldark Estate renovation site.

By noon, with plenty of fresh coffee and pastries to sweeten the deal, Rowena Parrot, said supervisor, had convinced me that God was at work and the discovery was the Horn’s ticket to salvation.

And at 13:00, I had flung a handful of croissants and my crumpled letter, onto the passenger seat of my father’s old Volvo, swung in an erratic circle out of the parking lot, and careened onto the motorway towards home, to pack a bag.

25 days later and 34 miles away, I stood with a notepad and a small glass of prosecco in my hand smiling at the sea of people before me, gathered specifically for journalistic purposes.

In the days that followed, the news broke on every platform imaginable. I joined a multitude of reporters, all armed with official lanyards and portable mic kits, to descend on the sleepy village of Williamsdon. We were desperate to be the first to discover the truth about the body found in one of the estate’s dilapidated wells. Not one for explicit accounts of anatomy, particularly about death and decay, I knew only a sordid account of scandal could save my career and get me out of the Horn for good.

I had been told, whilst I drank a solitary pint in the local tavern, that the locals believed Mr Brenden (whose name had eventually been unveiled) had been a popular member of his community, particularly with the ladies, back in ‘99. Then he suddenly disappeared without a trace and was never seen again.

The preppy guide at the visitor’s centre told me that Williamsdon, though full of natural aesthetics and charm, had failed to persuade millennials to stay and purchase their beloved childhood homes, and the ageing village was on its way to being abandoned within a few decades. 

“Of course,” the guide had added, supplying me with a mountain of leaflets about the town’s activities and interest points, “at least Williamsdon’s history won't be scattered across the globe to unreachable places; anything you need to know will be right here under ya nose to find.”

So, whilst other reporters huddled in clusters outside the centre, leaping on unsuspecting tourists to capture their thoughts about the body, I had taken another approach.

The following Monday morning after my arrival, I took a brisk 15-minute downhill walk from my B&B (or a 7-minute stroll, cutting through the back of a row of terraced houses along a path full of blossom trees) to St Peter’s Community Centre. Upon arrival, I realised I had accidentally walked in on a playgroup for parents and toddlers.

“I thought the knitting group was on Mondays,” I’d remarked to the receptionist. Her name badge read Victoria. Victoria had looked me up and down quizzically.

“No dear, Mums and Tots is on Mondays,” she said slapping a leaflet I had already seen before onto the desk, “Knitting is on Wednesdays now and has been for quite some-”

We had been interrupted by an agitated woman with a distinctive creamy spit-up stain on her blouse. I had scuttled out, mumbling that I must have read the days wrong.

I had planned to infiltrate the Knitting Group, to knit one purl one with the locals, hoping that one of them would have a story or two to tell about the deceased. But as I emerged back onto the main road, I collided with the one and only person who could give me what I needed.

Janet Beckinsale was 69, an empty nester, a mother of three and had lived in Williamsdon from ‘98 onwards. Since I had knocked her fresh groceries into an irretrievable mess on the pavement, I had offered to drive her back to the store, pay for replacements and then take her to her house located on the east edge of the town. I shook her hand and introduced myself as Libby.

Delighted to discover my blossom tree path shortcut, Janet chatted to me like an old friend as we walked to the B&B for my car. She’d told me, whilst reclined in my passenger seat clutching her produce, that her son, Joseph, was in town for a while and had dropped her at the big store (she usually went to the smaller one nearer her house), on his way south for a day-long business meeting.

“He’s your age you know,” she’d added as we had stepped into her modest stone cottage and the open plan kitchen. She still had the 90’s white wicker dining set and a yellow gingham theme running throughout. I smirked at her comment. My mother reminded me frequently that she had met my father, married and had me before 25, whilst I was pushing my mid-thirties. 

Janet had made a pot of tea and was fascinated to hear that I was a reporter looking to write a closer-to-home piece on Billy Brenden and had tapped her knees excitedly when I had asked if she could help me.

“Well, I am technically an outsider but I could invite the girls?” she responded, “especially LouAnne, Mariah and Delaney - gosh, they would have a few things to say about Billy’s life- they all practically grew up together.” 

I was fascinated with the view from her kitchen window; the never-ending wash of green fields reminded me I was in the idyllic countryside, but the white tents and blue tape surrounding the grisly find at the edge of Tuldark Estate’s property line, still visible in the distance, reminded me that all was far from peaceful. 

Despite joining the village later in life, Janet seemed incredibly well-connected. She became my constant day companion for two weeks as we drove up and down the village, arriving at the doorsteps of cheery older women, who wrapped themselves in cardigans despite the very definite start of summer. They were all equally interested in me, and I supposed it was because they didn't see much new blood often. 

Rosemary, who owned a jewellery business, fussed over my silver pendant necklace as I told her about my pre-teen years of playing ‘sleuthing’ and running into trouble around my local village. Johnny, the post office clerk, weighed Janet’s parcels wordlessly as I spoke to him of my parents -  my father’s family man nature and my mother’s kind but naive outlook.

Whilst a guest in people’s homes, I drank more herbal tea than I would care to admit and even managed to squeeze in an impromptu knitting class. I had almost forgotten that I was just a visitor to this town, but I did receive the obligatory phone call from Parrot every few days to check my progress on “our” groundbreaking story. If only she knew I planned to release the story independently.

Each of Janet’s close friends was welcoming and chatted happily about their lives in Williamsdon and the infamous Billy as I scribbled notes in my notepad whilst accepting plates of homemade shortbread.

LouAnne and Mariah were Billy’s neighbours. Delaney’s brother had worked with Billy at the supermarket during the summer of their senior school year. But when I had asked them specifically about the rumours that Billy was a ladies' man, they had all batted the question away without so much as a squeak. 

Their husbands did not speak about Billy either. They ground their teeth as their wives chatted happily and revisited memories of the once handsome dead guy in the well. 

Instead, a few of them hit the tyres of my Volvo with their walking sticks and reminisced instead of their love for motors; I even gave Delany’s husband, Drew, a nostalgic ride home from the library.

“Us folks don't really know the truth,” he coughed, sounding disturbing like my car as it backfired pitifully over a road hump, “only what someone else decides is the truth. You’ll need more than shortbreads and camomile if you want anyone to spill on ol’ Billy.”

Janet, who had been mumbling to herself, quiet beneath my car noise, suddenly clapped her hands and twisted in her seat to peer at Drew in the back.

“You know,” she’d said with a little smile, “isn’t there supposed to be an auction at St Peter’s every Spring Bank Holiday?”

So here we are in the present: our night of investigating disguised by the charity auction held to raise money to fix the old bell from the neighbouring church. The smallest hall in the community centre has been transformed with bunting and plastic tablecloths. It is filled with generous villagers in their Sunday best on a Monday night, milling around fold-up tables lined with hors d'oeuvres, prosecco and fruit punch. Mariah, who was a part of the village council, personally ensured that the kitchen had plenty of beverage refills. Of course, Drew was right - loose drunk lips sink secret ships. 

Along the outside rim of the hall, collectable items donated by the villagers sit in all their glory, willing attendees to place bids.

I waste no time and quickly corner a couple gazing at a pottery set, express my condolences for their corporate loss, and question them about Billy and the rumours.

Eighty minutes later, I stop writing useless notes about Billy’s childhood and instead allow Janet to pull me about the room, to look at the collectables. She even introduces me to her son Joseph who eyes me with particular interest. He is broad-shouldered with dark coiffed hair and is goofy looking.

“So Libby, how goes the sleuthing,” he asks, picking up his 4th hors d'oeuvres in 5 minutes.

“It isn’t,” I sigh, tucking my black hair behind my ear to prevent it from dangling into my prosecco, “I am starting to think that someone has paid everyone in this village a handsome sum to keep his secrets schtum.” 

Joseph does not respond to my comment and changes the subject.

“You’re how old again?” 

“33.”

“Ah, I’m 35 - you said you’re from the county, where did you go to high school? - I might know it, I spent quite some time at multiple schools for my extra special behaviour.”

He winked and I giggle.

“Locksley,” I say distractedly as I see a woman walk into the hall, her skin damp and her once perfectly curled hair plastered to her face. So, it is raining now. I also notice that guests are moving into the larger adjoining room.

I look back at Joseph who is frowning slightly into the distance - clearly, he doesn’t know the school - and I gesture to the main hall.

“We’d better get into the auction,” I say, “at least in there we won’t get dripped upon now that the rain has started.” As I speak, a drop of water lands on Joseph's shoulder and he gazes up at the roof, silent.

We sit in the back row next to Delany, Drew and Janet. Joseph mutters to his mother, and Drew furiously bangs his hand against his chest.

“This is not the place for that cough, Drew,” Delany hisses, hitting him on the back. 

The auction begins and I jiggle my foot restlessly. Seemingly the alcohol didn’t work, so I am no closer to finding the source of the rumours.

I turn to see a line of reporters tip-toeing into the room. Clearly, they were also having a slow news day. 

I swivel back in my seat as Lot 3’s description is read, and the words catch my attention.

It's a locket-type necklace, small and delicate on a chain. It looked bland but I found myself staring at it in fascination. Strangely, I hadn’t seen it displayed in the smaller hall. I touch my neck subconsciously.

Besides me, I hear Delany coo at the lot and she pokes her husband. Janet and Joseph have stopped muttering and Janet is sitting upright in her chair. I hear Drew wheeze to suppress a cough and I lean over to tap Janet’s elbow. She looks at me with a strange expression, like she is searching my face and then she looks puzzled, so I gesture at Drew.

Together, we hoist Drew to his feet, weave past the reporters and step back through the main hall and outside into the evening drizzle along the main road. Drew lets out a rapid-fire of coughs and accepts the glass of water I grabbed from the drinks table.

“Thank you,” he gushes, clearing his throat, “I’m like the town’s warning horn - you’d know it was me if you heard me hacking like this in the middle of the night.”

We laugh politely and Drew turns to leave. I start to follow but Janet catches my arm.

“See you,” she calls to Drew and then she turns to me.

I shiver and beat my bare arms, goosebumps rising on my skin.

“I didn't want him to bid on that necklace accidentally,” I joke, “I think Delany had her eye on it.”

Janet’s mouth twists.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” she says cooly, “I couldn’t understand why either.” I frown and then cock my head. I can hear a light rumbling in the distance - thunder?

“Sorry Jan, I’m talking about Drew, what are you talking about?”

“But then I started to realise,” she continues, arms folded, “what’s that saying? Loose lips-”

“- sink ships?” I finish as the rumbling morphs into the sound of an engine and a vintage car appears at the top of the hill, heading in our direction. We silently watch it approach and suddenly its exhaust sputters and backfires.

And then we both look at each other and I know that she has connected the dots.

So I take a step forward, put my hands on her chest and push, the car headlights looming.

But nothing happens. Janet stays upright and I realise her back foot is planted behind her firmly, and as the old car judders past, I feel hands around my wrists and turn to see Joseph and my new friends behind me, looks of triumph in their expressions.

*

Upon reflection, I realise now that my practised mannerisms and new cosmetic alterations were not enough to hide my inherent knowledge of Williamsdon from the village’s patrons. 

Avoiding leaky ceilings and knowing shortcut routes and previous activity timetables could only be the behaviour of someone who had been to Williamsdon before, either on many occasions or as a native.

Of course, the latter is true in my case - I’d known that knitting used to be on Mondays and that there was a decades-old hole in the centre’s roof. But I hadn’t bothered to find out that the first graduating class at the relatively new Locksley Academy couldn’t possibly be before 2010. I finished high school in 2007. 

So those unconscious slips of mine made my new acquaintances suspicious (I am told that Janet had asked Delany if she knew about the blossom trail and Victoria had reprimanded councilwoman Mariah about incorrect leafleting).

Billy’s story was a personal one to me.

My parents promised that he would never see the light of day again on that night back in ‘99 when, having snuck out of the house to roam the streets in the dark, sleuthing games on my mind, I had stumbled upon my mother, father and Billy, concealed by the oak trees at the back of Tuldark Estate. My mother, full of sorrowful repentance, caught at her rendezvous point with her lover, clutched my father who held a broken locket in his right fist, a fist that eventually connected with Billy’s smug face and sent him sprawling into a tree. We didn't have to check his pulse, his neck was at a weird angle when Dad threw his body into that abandoned well. 

Mum let me have the gifted necklace; she no longer had any use for a tainted gift of love. Then Dad drove us home across the fields, in his backfiring old Volvo, in full view of Janet’s kitchen window.

I envy those reporters who got the scoop on an exclusive emerging story as I was led away from the auction by police. The evidence against my parents is unsubstantial and circumstantial at best. I knew from the moment Billy’s corpse resurfaced that I had to do whatever it took to re-bury him and my family’s broken past. 

But I’d failed.

JANET

I remember doe-eyed hooked-nosed Tiana Fairisle. I could tell she was an unhappy wife; she wasn’t a girl's girl either and ignored all our invitations to ladies' brunch. 

And I remember her daughter, Elizabeth (or Libby) Fairisle, aged ten, inquisitive and intelligent.

Well, I had forgotten. It had even been some time since I’d thought of Him. I still remember my nonchalance when my besotted emails went unanswered, but my heart was crushed.

But then I bumped into Libby that day on the street, and I recognised her unique inherited nose and the filigree silver necklace glittering around her neck. Instantly, my mind whirring, I reached into my pocket, and my fingers curled around my identical keepsake.

So, the rumours (Lord knows who started them) had been true.

The girls had tried to tell me, but love blinded me. So at that moment with Libby, all I could feel was a jealous rage.

Admittedly, Libby wasn’t to blame for Billy’s philandering but someone had to pay. Her noisy Volvo triggered vague memories I never knew I had, especially as the police had asked if I had seen or heard anything at the time.

My friends had played their parts beautifully, sticking to the plan to expose Libby by staying quiet, but slipping my necklace into auction had been the final trick, the final iceberg to sink the Fairisle family’s ship.

And they were definitely going down.